


Lay Down Your Bones

by SaltCore



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt Jesse McCree, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, injury hiding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 15:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14083911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore
Summary: After a close call, Jesse decides there's no need to worry Hanzo with something he can manage on his own. He's been hurt worse than this, after all.





	Lay Down Your Bones

The pain is so absolute, Jesse can’t even scream. A piece of shrapnel from the blast lodged in his prosthetic, shorting something and wreaking havoc up his arm through the neural interface and into the nerves of his shoulder. Jesse wrenches the metal shard out with his other hand, cutting clean through his glove and his fingers in the process. There’s an immediate relief, but when he tries to clench his left hand, the pain returns. It’s not as bad as before, but it makes Jesse groan through clenched teeth.

“Jesse?” Hanzo calls over the com, a near frantic edge to his voice. “Jesse, are you all right?”

Jesse takes a few shallow breaths to ground himself before he answers.

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice reasonably steady to his own ears.

“I heard an explosion, what is going on?”

If he tells Hanzo he just caught the edge of a grenade’s blast radius, he knows Hanzo will leave his position. Hanzo has self-discipline for days, but following orders and that cold, military calculus don’t come naturally to him. If Hanzo isn’t keeping their exit clear, they might not get out of here at all. If Hanzo tries to come down here, he doesn’t have body armor and a metal arm to absorb another blast. Jesse’s got to take care of this on his own. If he can’t, then at least Hanzo will be able to make it out.

“Nothin’ I can’t handle. Be there before you know it, sugar.”

“Understood,” Hanzo says, sounding only marginally less concerned.

Jesse pushes himself back to his feet. He hears shouting, and it’s close. He reloads Peacekeeper, swallows down the pain, and readies himself to fire.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo had taken one look at his prosthetic and his eyebrows knitted down over his nose and a deep frown creased itself into his mouth. There is nothing Hanzo can do about it, so Jesse lied and cajoled his way around it. Hanzo let the subject drop, but he’s clearly suspicious. He should be. It feels like someone buried a live cattle prod under his skin every time Jesse moves his left arm. 

They’ll meet Lena for extraction in just under sixteen hours. Sixteen hours is nothing. He just hurts like hell; it’s not like he’s dying. Still, Jesse makes Hanzo drive them back to the safe house. His excuse is that he doesn’t trust the encryption on the telemetry enough to use the autopilot, which he doesn’t, and that he’s having trouble with one axis of motion in his wrist, which he is. Never mind that he thinks if he had to put both hands on the wheel he’d black out. Not even he is good enough at deflection to cover for crashing a car.

They just have to get to the safe house, then get some rest, then back to Gibraltar. Get Winston or Torbjörn to look at his arm. Just sixteen hours, is all. He can manage that.

 

* * *

 

The safe house is a small apartment with an open floor plan. Only the bedroom and the bathroom are closed off, leaving one large room to serve as both a kitchenette and living room. It’s not more than they need, and it’s easy enough to clear.

Jesse has to get Hanzo’s help to take off his body armor, but after he’s free he immediately begs off to the bathroom, grabbing his dopp kit as cover. He shuts the door tight behind him and turns on the water to cover any other noise. He pulls off his ruined glove with his teeth and lets the water run over his fingers. It stings, but that barely even registers. He looks at the dark line that remains across his fingers once the dried blood has washed away. It’s not that bad. The cuts have mostly clotted already.

Jesse tugs his shirt off and looks in the blotchy mirror. The skin around the metal of his left arm is a furious red and tender to the touch. He can see lines of darker red where the taps into his nervous system must have gotten too hot. He glances into the hole. He can barely see a twist of mangled wiring and at least one damaged actuator. His side is bruised from where the blast knocked his own body armor into him. It’s already a livid purple, but it’s better than the alternative.

Jesse bites his tongue and sucks in as deep a breath as he can manage. It hurts, but not with the sharp grating he was fearing. Jesse presses his fingers along the bones under the bruises, just to be sure. He doesn’t feel anything like a break. Just bruises. Nothing for it but time.

He exhales through gritted teeth and tries to wash the dust off his face as best as he can. He can hardly do that without his vision narrowing. He should just cut the power to his arm, but he doesn’t want to be caught without it if something goes wrong. He also doesn’t want Hanzo to worry. If there was something he could do, but—

There’s no use thinking about it. He can tough this out. It’s bad enough that one of them has his focus split, telling Hanzo just means more distraction and that much more risk. There’s less than fifteen hours now. He’s done worse.

Jesse pulls a bottle out of his kit and pops the lid off. He digs out a couple of tablets, something for the pain, and swallows them down with a few mouthfuls of water from the tap. He pulls his shirt back on as carefully as he can and leaves the bathroom.

“’S all yours, Han,” Jesse calls.

Hanzo looks up from where he was bent over his phone on the couch. He’s still dressed in his gear, with his quiver and Stormbow sitting beside him. There’s the wrapper from a ration bar sitting beside him, folded neatly, and a second one sitting untouched. His expression shifts from neutral to something tight when he looks up from his phone. He sets it aside and gets up, striding to Jesse.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Hanzo asks. Jesse nods, but Hanzo catches sight of his ruined glove and his face twists into a glower. Hanzo reaches out and takes his hand, cradling it between his own. He runs his fingertips just below the cuts on his fingers.

“Do you need help with these?” Hanzo’s voice is soft but serious. Jesse lets his shoulders slump. It’s a small thing, something Jesse would’ve left to heal by itself, but it is something that’s possible to address. And Hanzo clearly wants to address it.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Hanzo releases his hand and darts off to their first aid kit. Jesse drops himself onto the couch. Those painkillers either haven’t kicked in or can’t make a dent in it. Hanzo returns with the kit, sitting primly on the edge of the cushion beside him.

“Your hand,” he says with an unwarranted but endearing intensity. He holds out his hand for Jesse to deposit his own. Jesse’s lips twitch up, and he complies with Hanzo’s order. Hanzo is gentle as he applies antibiotic cream, and he bandages each of Jesse’s fingers with precise motions. He pays Jesse’s hand the same attention he would his weapon. He finishes by lifting up Jesse’s hand a pressing a kiss to the backs of his fingers. Jesse can’t help but smile at him.

“All better,” Jesse says. Hanzo’s doesn’t seem convinced, his assessing gaze roaming over Jesse. Jesse tries to look as relaxed as his can. Hanzo reaches out and brushes his fingers around the damage to his prosthetic, but he doesn’t try to move it.

Jesse doesn’t need to hear Hanzo say that it was a call much too close for his comfort—it’s written into every line of his posture. Close, but not close enough. He’s still kicking and _they_ are not, after all. Jesse reaches up and bumps Hanzo’s chin gently with his good hand, hoping to disrupt the grim thoughts he can see swirling behind Hanzo’s eyes. Hanzo offers him a wan smile and pats his arm, then leans back and repacks the kit.

Hanzo sets the ration bar on Jesse’s lap, then gets to his feet and goes to the bathroom, stashing the first aid kit on his way. Jesse blows a long, shuddering sigh once the water starts knocking in the pipes. The painkillers aren’t doing a damn thing. He pockets the bar; he’s not the least bit hungry right now. He tries to focus on the sound of the water and Hanzo puttering around, anything to distract him from his own body. He’s had worse, he reminds himself. He’s had so much worse.

Hanzo exits the bathroom and heads straight for the bedroom. Jesse trails behind him. Outside, the sun is beginning to set. They have nothing else to do but bed down for the night. Jesse doesn’t relish the idea of lying awake on the thin mattress, pretending to sleep for Hanzo’s sake. He shucks the remnants of his gear, but doesn’t undress any further. Hanzo shoots him a questioning look.

“I’ll take the first watch,” Jesse offers.

“Are you sure?” Hanzo asks. “You look tired.”

“I’m too keyed up to sleep right now.”

Hanzo frowns, but after a few seconds he shrugs, relenting.  He must be tired himself if that’s all the fight he’s putting up. Hanzo drops onto the bed, rolling to press his back to the wall and arranging the blanket so it won’t tangle around him. Jesse sits at the head of the bed, leaning against the headboard, and slings one leg onto the bed. He sets Peacekeeper in easy reach on the floor beside him.

It takes Hanzo a few minutes to settle, but he eventually does. Jesse doesn’t get to see him relaxed and loose nearly often enough, so he indulges himself by watching Hanzo drift off to sleep. He doesn’t tend to sprawl in his sleep, but tonight he cast one arm out, tucking his hand under Jesse’s knee.

Jesse leans back and listens carefully to the sounds of the apartment building, resigning himself to a long night.

 

* * *

 

The first rays of sunlight filter through the blinds, and Jesse watches them crawl up the far wall. He’d let their usual watch change pass without waking Hanzo. He’d never have been able to get to sleep, and it didn’t seem fair to deny Hanzo the rest. He’ll catch hell for it, but he can’t find it in him to care.

Christ, he can’t wait to get back to the Watchpoint and have his arm fixed.

Hanzo doesn’t wake up all at once. He fidgets and grumbles and slowly shrugs sleep off. The instant he realizes it’s morning, he immediately shoves himself upright, eyes wide with panic. He stares at Jesse for just a beat too long, like he didn’t expect him to be there.

“It’s already morning,” Hanzo hisses, accusing.

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Wasn’t that tired,” Jesse lies. Hanzo narrows his eyes, glaring down his nose at Jesse.

“That is a risk you did _not_ need to take. What if you had fallen asleep?”

“Well, I didn’t, and everythin’ was quiet,” Jesse snaps back. “I can stand a damn watch, Hanzo.”

Hanzo purses his lips, the anger fading from his expression. He reaches out and lays his hand on Jesse’s thigh.

“I know you are capable, but I can tell you are exhausted,” he says, much more softly and a little apologetic. “Are you _sure_ you’re all right?”

Jesse places his good hand over Hanzo’s, squeezing once. He feels like hell warmed over and, of course, Hanzo would be able to tell. He shouldn’t have snapped at Hanzo for calling his bad bluff. He closes his eyes and blows out a long sigh.

When he opens his eyes again, Hanzo is staring at him with open concern. This is what Jesse had hoped to avoid—worrying Hanzo with something he can’t fix. Hanzo sits up a little straighter, seeming to get an answer, whether or not Jesse meant to give one.

“I’ll pack our things, then. Try to sleep in the meantime. Please?”

Jesse nods. He can do that just fine. Hanzo leans forward and presses a kiss against his cheek, then climbs over Jesse and out of the bed. Jesse slumps down to lie flat, trying to move his prosthetic as little as possible, while Hanzo dresses.

Jesse drifts, not quite asleep, as Hanzo putters quietly. There’s plenty to do to cover their tracks, and it would go faster with two people, but they have hours yet. Hanzo can handle it.

As long as Jesse doesn’t move, it doesn’t hurt much. It won’t be much longer now, he reminds himself.

 

* * *

 

“Jesse?”

Jesse jerks awake, swings out with his left arm on reflex, and screams. He can’t even _see_ it hurts so much, waves of feedback and static from the malfunctioning prosthetic traveling through his nerves and setting him alight from the inside out. He tastes copper, and distantly realizes he must have bit through his tongue.

There are hands on his face, someone calling his name. When he blinks his vision clear, he sees Hanzo staring down at him, on the verge of panic. He looks around blearily, remembering far too slowly that he’s in a safehouse and that they are wrapping up a mission.

“Jesse? Jesse, what’s wrong? What do I need to do?” He’s talking so quickly his accent is bleeding through, muddling his words. Jesse shakes his head, unable to answer. He can barely breathe. Hanzo presses his forehead to Jesse’s and swears softly, then starts feeling down his body. He presses his fingers into Jesse’s bruised side, and Jesse groans. Hanzo furiously unbuttons his shirt, throwing it open, then pauses.

“You said you weren’t hurt.” It’s not an accusation—it’s not heated enough for that. Hanzo sounds almost sad. Hanzo pulls him upright and helps Jesse take his shirt the rest of the way off. He frowns when he sees Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse leans into him, trying to collect himself.

“There’s somethin’ shorted. ‘M gettin’ feedback.”

“How do I stop it?” Hanzo demands.

“Only way is to cut the power,” Jesse says, hesitant.

“How?”

“See that panel?” Jesse taps it with his good hand. Luckily, it wasn’t damaged. Hanzo pries it open, and after a few seconds, the agony stops. No sensation, no pain, just the disorienting, lifeless weight pulling him to the left. Hanzo holds him while he sucks air through his clenched teeth, adjusting to the sudden loss. Hanzo’s fingers wander through his hair, petting it gently.

With a shuddering sigh, Jesse pushes himself away. He pulls the prosthetic into his lap to keep it from dangling and tries not to meet Hanzo’s eyes, but Hanzo reaches out and places a hand on his cheek, turning his face back.

“Why? Why would you hide this?”

Hanzo’s expressive when he’s not putting up a front. Jesse can pick out the worry, the fading fear, the confusion, the hurt, all laid out plain as day.

“I didn’t want to worry you. I’m gonna be fine.”

“I have been worried about you since I heard a grenade go off near your position,” Hanzo shoots back.

“Damage was done by then. Only thing you could do was keep the path clear, or finish the mission without me.”

Hanzo tenses.

“You think I would—” he starts, but Jesse cuts him off.

“I _expect_ that if I’d gotten myself mulched, you’d bring back the intel instead of riskin’ your neck for a corpse.”

Hanzo’s hand drops away, and he presses his lips into a tight line. He crosses his arms over his chest and hunches forward a little, looking at the ground.

“I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t want to _think_ about that.”

Jesse sighs and scratches his fingers through his beard. Without the pain, he feels the full force of his exhaustion, but he can’t let himself rest until they’re back safe on the Orca. He reaches for his shirt and starts to pull it back on. Hanzo helps him thread his prosthetic through the sleeve. He tries to get to his feet, but Hanzo stops him.

“I want to know if you are hurt. You don’t have to hide something like that from me. Worrying after you is my prerogative.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” Jesse reaches out and squeezes Hanzo’s knee. “I figured I could stick it out till we got back to Gilbratar. I didn’t wanna leave you shorthanded in case we were followed.”

Hanzo stares blankly at him for a beat.

“Was that a joke?”

Jesse grins. Hanzo rolls his eyes and bats the backs of his fingers against Jesse’s good arm.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You like it.”

Jesse kisses his temple. Hanzo twists and pulls Jesse against his chest, burying his face in Jesse’s neck. Jesse can feel Hanzo’s jaw clenching, Hanzo’s hands fisting in his shirt. Jesse rubs his hand up and down Hanzo’s back, trying to soothe.

“I couldn’t see you when I heard it. It was—was hard to wait, not knowing if you needed help, or if I would be able to get to you if you did.”

“I’m a selfish man, so I can’t say I don’t prefer you up on some perch where you’re safer, darlin’,” Jesse says. “But, hey, I’m as lucky as I am good. Stayed alive this long.”

Hanzo pulls back and looks at him, contemplative. He raises his hand and brushes his thumb over the scar splitting Jesse’s lips.

“You have, haven’t you?”

Hanzo levers himself up and gathers Jesse’s boots, helping him put those on. He also helps with the holster. He hovers at Jesse’s side all the way to the car, standing at his left. Hanzo opens the passenger door for him and then darts to the driver’s side, sliding in and starting the car. Old habit forces Jesse to sit up straight and keep watch, instead of sliding down and sleeping like he wants to. Even a few seconds warning could make a difference. Hanzo reaches one hand over the console and rests it on Jesse’s thigh. It’s more comforting that it has any right to be.

It won’t be long now, and he’s in good hands until Gibraltar.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the result of a prompt from tumblr. Feel free to drop by https://saltytothecore.tumblr.com/


End file.
